


lay your demons at the door

by abovetheruins



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Secrets, Seer!Ryan, shyanexchange2k18, shyanwritingevents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: Ryan had been so careful. For months he had learned to train his face into a semblance of normalcy every time a spirit got too close or he was overwhelmed with some indiscernible emotion on location. He had learned to channel his fear into something more manageable, something entertaining enough for the cameras but not so severe that anyone would be able to tell he wasn’t just jumping at shadows or groaning floorboards anymore.Shane wasn’t supposed to find out. He wasn't supposed toknow.





	lay your demons at the door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poetdameron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetdameron/gifts).



> For Nini! I really loved this prompt and, though I don't think I was able to fit in everything you wanted, I hope I managed to do it justice and that you enjoy it!

Part I

Ryan knows a thing or two about fear. They're old friends, see, the two of them. They go way back, to when Ryan was a kid huddling under his covers with a flashlight and one eye trained on his closet door, sure that there was something lurking just beyond the wooden slats, watching him.

He always feels it, even now: that niggling sensation in the back of his mind that he's being followed, watched. Pursued. It used to frighten him as a child, pure, unfiltered terror swimming through his veins whenever he was alone at night. It pissed him off as a teen, and the anger made the fear easier to bear. He refused to cower beneath the weight of some _feeling_ , refused to let it bend him to its will, turn him into some neurotic mess. He's always had that stubborn streak.

He learns to live with it, as an adult: the fear, the sensation of eyes on his back. He channels both of them into a YouTube series that begins to grow in popularity and then just never seems to stop. He seeks out the darkness that used to terrify him so badly as a kid, seeks out places of death and decay and disease, places rumored to be haunted, infested with demons, riddled with spirits. He's scared shitless each time, but he does it. 

For months and months he and Shane trek across the country in search of the supernatural. They fumble through a sprawling maze of a mansion, across an island of rotting dolls, and even spend the night in the middle of a demon-infested suburban dream house. They explore old, creaking buildings drenched in tragic history and a bar alleged to house a portal to hell. Ryan's terrified for most of it, but it's a familiar fear, and he can deal with it. He's fine.

He’s never felt fear like _this_.

The morning sunlight is milky and weak as he follows Shane back to their car, his rolled sleeping bag tucked under his arm and his bag tossed over his shoulder. His eyes are tight and achy behind his glasses and exhaustion hangs heavy in every limb, trophies of a sleepless night on cold concrete and the nauseous fear churning in his stomach – not because of their surroundings, but because of his own careless actions. He’d gotten sloppy, hadn’t realized that Shane was still awake when he’d crept from his sleeping bag with his flashlight and picked his way carefully down the hospital’s winding corridors, hadn’t realized he’d been followed until it was too late, until Shane was calling his name in a tone Ryan had never heard before, confused and a little unsure and – _fuck_ – unnerved, like he didn’t know what he was looking at.

Ryan can only imagine the scene through Shane’s eyes, how he must have looked to him, sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor with his flashlight lying at his side, trained on the dark, empty hallway in front of him and whispering to the air like a madman.

Embarrassment flushes through him, sharp and hot. He should have heard Shane coming, but he had been so focused on the kid in the wool knit cap running down the hallway, peals of laughter spilling from his mouth as a smiling woman in uniform chased after him, that he hadn’t even noticed he had company.

_Fuck_.

Ryan had been so careful. For months he had learned to train his face into a semblance of normalcy every time a spirit got too close or he was overwhelmed with some indiscernible emotion on location. He had learned to channel his fear into something more manageable, something entertaining enough for the cameras but not so severe that anyone would be able to tell he wasn’t just jumping at shadows or groaning floorboards anymore.

Shane wasn’t supposed to find out. He wasn’t supposed to _know_. And now he’s not even looking at Ryan, not saying a word, and the atmosphere is tense and uncomfortable as they slide into the rental car with Shane at the wheel, pointing them silently toward their hotel.

The ride is silent, despite Ryan opening and closing his mouth several times to say… something, he doesn’t even fucking know what. He’s thought about this moment a thousand times in the last few months, but it had never gone like this. He’d imagined sitting Shane down, having a serious discussion, explaining in some way that would make Shane _believe_ , believe that Ryan was telling the truth, that he wasn’t crazy, that what he was seeing was _real_.

He hasn’t told anyone – not his parents, not his brother, not a soul, but he would have told Shane, eventually, after they’d finally found that shred of evidence that even Shane couldn’t disprove. That was Ryan’s plan, and now it was fucked.

Everything was fucked.

He’s the first into the hotel room when they get back, and he makes a beeline for the bathroom with a fresh change of clothes cradled in his arms. He wants to wash the sensation of dust and dirt and cobwebs from his skin, to be alone for a moment to just… breathe.

The one thing he’d wanted to avoid – the one thing he was truly scared of – wasn’t that Shane wouldn’t believe him. Ryan had expected that, even in his most optimistic imaginings. Shane would kick and scream and drag his feet no matter what evidence Ryan tossed at him, partly because his skepticism was just that deeply rooted and partly because he lived to frustrate Ryan.

And Ryan – he didn’t _need_ Shane to believe him, not really. He wanted it, sometimes so badly that it ached, but he could live without it, he could deal with it. That was the entire dynamic of the show, anyway, that he was a believer and Shane wasn’t. The goal was to get him and others like him to acknowledge that there were things out there that couldn’t be explained, but if that never happened, if Shane never believed in ghosts or demons or the supernatural – that was fine.

What Ryan couldn’t stand, what made his stomach twist in nauseous fear, was the thought of Shane thinking he was crazy, thinking that he was losing it and seeing things that weren’t there, that he was _delusional_. Shane teased him about his belief a lot, it was basically a hallmark of the show, but it was never mean-spirited, never pitying, never anything but playful. If that stopped, if Shane started looking at him differently, acting differently, because of what he’d walked in on, Ryan couldn’t take that. He just fucking couldn’t.

Unsolved was his baby, his dream, but Shane had been the missing piece that, when finally clicked into place, had made the whole thing feel _right_. He teased Ryan for his fear but he also kept him from careening headfirst into a blind panic, and knowing he would always be right there, ready and willing to follow Ryan into dilapidated houses and abandoned hospitals with nothing more than a goofy grin and an arsenal of taunts at the ready, kept Ryan sane, made him feel _safe_.

And now it was all crumbling beneath his feet. Shane would think there was something wrong with him, something that needed to be _fixed_ , seen to by professionals who could break Ryan out of whatever delusion he’d fallen into to think that he could see – and here he could see Shane’s lips twist into a sardonic smirk, and it twisted at his insides – _ghosts_.

“ _Ghosts aren’t real, Ryan. How many times do I have to tell you?_ ”

He’s grateful that their flight home is in a couple hours – it gives Shane just enough time to shower before they have to leave to meet up with the crew in the lobby. Ryan feigns sleep in the car on the way to the airport and ignores the rumble of Shane and T.J.’s voices in the front seat. He ignores the weight of eyes on him, too.

He and Shane don’t talk, not through the flight and not through picking their bags up from baggage claim at LAX. Ryan waves away T.J.’s offer of a ride home and mumbles something about picking up an Uber, but he barely takes two steps before Shane speaks up.

“See you on Monday, Ry,” he says, deliberately casual and far too obvious because of it.

Ryan’s fingers clench around the handle of his suitcase. He can’t bring himself to meet Shane’s eyes. “Yeah, see you,” he returns, and leaves.

They don’t talk about it – not on Monday, not the week after, not through filming the next episode of Unsolved. They don’t talk about it. Weeks pass, and Ryan’s just waiting, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Shane to turn to him one day and confront him about Waverly. “ _Who were you talking to, Ryan?_ ” he’d ask, or maybe, “ _What did you see?_ ” He waits for Shane to take him aside and say he’s _sorry, really, Ry, but I can’t do this anymore_ , and leave Ryan to search out the next haunted location on his own. He waits for _anything_ to happen, and nothing does.

Ryan should be relieved. He should be _thankful_ , but he’s not. He’s frustrated, and afraid, and he’s _tired_ \- tired of tiptoeing around this thing, tired of pretending that everything is fine, tired of sealing his lips against everything that he wants to say. He can only go so long before he breaks.

Shane doesn’t give him the opportunity. He shows up at Ryan’s door exactly a week after they come back from Salem, a pizza box and six-pack in hand and the most determined look Ryan’s ever seen splashed across his face, and before Ryan can even think to ask what the hell he’s doing, Shane pushes his way into Ryan’s apartment and says, casual as you please, “Tell me a story, Bergara.”

Ryan gapes after him. “Shane, what – ?” Something nervous and fearful writhes in his chest, and he knows, _this is it. You’ve been waiting for it, and here it is_.

Shane deposits his bounty on the coffee table and plops down onto the couch, grabbing for a beer and patting the space beside him. “C’mon, Ryan. Don’t leave me hangin’ here,” he says, coaxing Ryan forward with a wave of his hand.

Despite the confusion and anxiety throwing a goddamn rave in Ryan’s head, he goes, sinking down onto the couch and reaching for his own beer, not out of any real desire for it but a need to occupy his hands, which have gone cold and a little numb as Shane raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“We’re talking about this?” Ryan asks, not at all surprised when his voice shakes. Weeks and weeks of restless wondering and sleepless nights have left his nerves shot and fraying, and Shane’s composure, which Ryan usually appreciates when he’s on the verge of a freakout, isn’t helping now.

To Shane’s credit, he seems to pick up on Ryan’s distress easily enough, and the mirth drops from his face to be replaced with a more somber, almost apologetic expression. “We are,” he says, less upbeat than before. “We _can_. If you want to.”

Ryan wants to. He’s scared out of his fucking mind, but he wants to. He hasn’t told anyone, has never thought it was an option, and the urge to spill all of it, to finally have someone listen, is too difficult to ignore.

“It started at the Whaley house,” he says quietly.

_He feels the itch of eyes on the back of his neck as soon as he crosses the threshold, the short hairs at his nape standing on end as he relates the history of the house and the string of tragedies that had befallen the Whaley family to Shane and the audience. He ignores the sensation as best he can as they make their way through the house, eventually settling into opposite chairs on either side of the courtroom. It doesn't work. Ryan's gut is an anxious roil of nerves that he barely manages to play off with humor._

_The surge of vertigo he feels catches him completely off guard. It's sudden and overwhelming, a wave of dizziness that makes him slump in his chair, his head swimming. He tries to explain what he's feeling to Shane, but it's a lost cause - Shane will humor him, ask if he's alright, but he won't believe him._

_And that's fine. That's the point of the show, to gather irrefutable proof of the supernatural so that even stalwart skeptics like Shane won't be able to deny it._

_But there's no way for Ryan to prove a feeling, to make Shane feel what **he** feels, so he swallows his words and moves on._

_The parlor is its own special brand of hell. He listens to Shane attempt to cajole the spirits out of hiding, envying the man's composure and complete disregard to the fact that he's sitting by himself in a room riddled with ghostly activity. By the time it's Ryan's turn he's worked himself into such a lather that he can barely sit still, repeating mumbled entreaties to himself to just calm the fuck down while his eyes desperately try to adjust to the dark._

_He's on the razor's edge of a panic attack when the whisper comes, a raspy burst of sound right against the shell of his ear. He screams and darts up from his chair, turning, and that's when he sees it: the flash of a pale face, there and gone in his periphery faster than he can blink. His voice cracks as he calls out to Shane, asking if he's being fucked with, even though he knows - he **knows** \- that there had been no one in the room with him. _

_But the image of that face stays with him, embedded in his mind as they finish up the outro and say goodbye to the Whaley house. Ryan can't resist taking one last glance back before he follows Shane to the car, and the whisper of movement in the upstairs window, the pale slice of a face peeking out from behind the curtains, sends him darting down the path on feet that can't move fast enough._

“Thought it was a fluke,” Ryan says, peeling at the label on his beer bottle. Shane hasn’t interrupted him, not once, and it’s doing nothing to ease the anxious spiral of his thoughts. “I was freaking out anyway, I was all worked up, terrified. I could have imagined it.”

“You sound like me,” Shane interjects with a soft laugh, and Ryan looks up, surprised and cautiously optimistic at the sound. Shane’s watching him, but there’s no judgement on his face, no disdain, no condemnation. He’s just listening, and Ryan’s anxiety eases, just a bit.

“Don’t think I wasn’t beating myself up about _that_ ,” he snorts, and then adds in a more sobering tone, “We didn’t capture any footage of… of what I thought I saw on camera, anyway, so even if it was real, it’s not like I had any proof to show for it.” 

So he had gone home and tried to forget about it. It had even worked, for a little while, until they stepped aboard the Queen Mary a few weeks later and he was hit with a flood of sensation that nearly sent him to his knees. It had been more than just his reservations about returning to the ship; it was wave after wave of fear and anger and sorrow, filling up every crevice of the Queen Mary and clogging up his head until he'd been jumping at every creak, every muffled bang and groan of shifting machinery. 

Shane hadn’t seemed to feel any of it; he’d laughed each time Ryan jumped and never lost his veneer of amusement, not even when they'd been deep in the bowels of the ship where the negative energy seemed strongest. 

“That helped,” Ryan confesses. Might as well, if he’s spilling all of his secrets tonight. He can always blame it on the beer, if he needs to. “Always does, actually.”

“Me being a dick _helps_?” Shane mock-gasps, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You sure you want to admit that, Bergara? Now I’m never gonna want to hold back. It’ll be full-throttle douchebaggery from here on out, baby!”

Ryan wheezes softly, even as his heart trips in his chest. _From here on out_ is enough of an implication that Shane wants to keep going with the show, isn’t it? That he’s not planning on walking away?

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” he confesses in a smaller voice. The light-hearted playfulness that had overcome them for a moment leeches from the room, but Ryan doesn’t stop. This, above everything else, is something he needs to get out. “I didn’t want you to think I was making this up, or that I was – that I was losing it, going crazy, even though at the time… at the time, I thought I was.”

He’d been terrified, so afraid that the things he was seeing, the things he was feeling – that they were all in his head, just hallucinations brought on by his fear or his stress or something worse. “I got myself checked out, thinking that maybe – that maybe if I could figure out a cause, I could get it to stop. I spent weeks waiting for the results, trying to pretend like everything was fine when I was freaking the fuck out because – because what was I gonna do if something was wrong? What was I gonna do if they couldn’t find anything? And then all of the tests came back negative, and part of me was relieved but part of me was just so goddamn frustrated, because I knew something was wrong, something had changed, but I couldn’t exactly tell my doctor that I was seeing – “ He pauses, quickly glancing up at Shane’s face and then away again. He can’t say it, not even now. The lump in his throat prevents him from getting another word out, and he takes a long swallow of his beer to try and chase the acrid taste of fear from his mouth, because he’s not done, he has to say this, even as his stomach is twisting into a tight, painful knot.

“This is real, Shane,” he says, forcing himself to meet Shane’s eyes for the first time that night. His shoulders draw up tight, bracing for some inevitable blow. “For me, this is real, and I have to live with it, but you… If you can’t deal with this, if you don’t want to do the show with me anymore, or, or have anything to do with me – ”

“Hey, hey.” Ryan’s mouth clicks shut at the soft rumble of Shane’s voice. He watches with a mixture of trepidation and anxious hope as Shane abandons his beer on the table and scoots closer, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before curling his hand over Ryan’s shoulder. He’s being careful, far more cautious around Ryan than Ryan’s ever seen him, and he wants to bristle at that, to rage against it, because he doesn’t want to be treated like fucking glass, but at the same time he needs it, because he’s been fraying for weeks, for _months_ , and he feels like a single harsh word or look or touch will tear him to pieces. “Breathe, okay? C’mon, just breathe, Ry.”

Ryan does as he’s asked, taking in a lungful of breath and letting it filter slowly out, again and again until the clammy feeling clinging to his skin dissipates. All the while Shane’s hand remains on his shoulder, a warm, steadying weight.

“I’m not leaving, okay?” Shane squeezes his shoulder, pulls Ryan into his side, and it’s new, this level of closeness, but it isn’t bad. It’s grounding. “Get that thought outta your head, Bergara, seriously, because it’s – it’s ridiculous, is what it is. You just told me you depend on my – frankly, unprecedented – ability to be a dick, you can’t say shit like that and then tell me it’s okay if I walk away.”

“Shane.” Christ, his voice is fucked, like he’s on the verge of tears. “C’mon, dude, you don’t – you don’t believe in this stuff – “

“Yeah, so?” Shane wraps his arm around Ryan’s shoulders, a shit-eating grin on his face. “That’s the whole premise of the fucking show, isn’t it? Nothing has to change.”

Ryan hesitates. _Nothing has to change_ could mean anything – that they’ll continue on as they have been, not talking about… all of this, or… Honestly, Ryan’s not sure what the alternative is. He can’t imagine Shane taking his claims about bad vibes or ghostly presences any more seriously now than he had before, and that should probably frustrate him. God knows it has before and will again, especially when he’s practically staring a spirit in the goddamn face and Shane’s as oblivious as always, but it’s also kind of… reassuring?

Ryan restrains a laugh. He finds Shane’s skepticism _reassuring_ , what the fuck. Is this really what his life has come to?

“C’mon,” Shane coaxes, jostling his shoulder once more before letting go and reaching for the pizza box. Ryan ignores his disappointment at the loss of warmth. “Let’s eat and you can yack my ear off about the next location.”

Ryan snorts, reaching for a slice and cupping his palm underneath so he doesn’t spill sauce and cheese all over his couch. “Don’t act like you’re not excited about going to New Orleans, big guy.”

“Oh, I’m excited,” Shane returns, “but not for whatever ghostie ghouls you’ll have us chasing.”

Ryan huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Better learn to pace yourself before we go, bud. I’m not carrying you back to the hotel when you get sloshed after two drinks.”

Shane gasps, mock-offended. “Well, I never!” he says, voice pitched high. “Cut me some slack, Ryan. We can’t all be former frat boys.”

They quickly devolve into a heated debate about who has the best tolerance and who they expect will be hating life come the morning of the shoot, and by the time Shane’s passed out on his couch and Ryan’s heading to his bedroom, faintly buzzed and pleasantly full, the anxious roil of his gut has been soothed by the utter normality of the night. He shoots a last look at his lanky best friend, snorting at the sight of him all curled up and snoring on Ryan’s couch, and remembers the surety in his voice as he’d told Ryan that _Nothing has to change_.

Maybe he’s right.

 

 

Part II

Their first night in New Orleans is… interesting, to say the least.

They’re in the hotel long enough to toss their bags in their room before they’re spilling out onto the streets with the crew, their destination the nearest bar within walking distance. Music pours from open doorways, the street filled with crowds of tourists and locals alike, ebbing and flowing from one establishment to the next. Shane gets pelted with a string of beads three times before he learns to duck, and Ryan’s laughter rumbles against his side where they’re practically plastered together. Shane loses track of time after the third bar, and the rest of the night blends into a long, blurry tromp up and down brightly lit city streets, the flash of colorful beads wrapped around throats and dangling from wrists, and Ryan’s throaty laughter, warm and close.

They’re both, admittedly, tanked when they return to the hotel sometime around three a.m., and not in the least bit inclined to go to bed. They wind up on their balcony tossing beads into the crowd, still going strong at even this late hour, and Shane has the vague hope that he’ll forget all of the nonsense he’s currently yelling into the night come morning.

“I’m pretty sure you just beaned that guy in the head,” Ryan giggles, slumping back into one of the chairs perched on the balcony and taking a long swallow from his water bottle. They’d both grabbed a couple from the fridge before winding up out here, some basic instinct trying to save them from a truly miserable hangover the next morning.

“Just payin’ it forward, Ryan!” Shane chirps, his words slurring a little. He dangles his last remaining string of beads from his pointer finger, scanning the crowd below for a worthy recipient, before a hand wrapping in the back of his shirt pulls him away from the railing. He slumps into his own chair with what might be classified as a whine if he weren’t a full-grown man in complete control of all of his faculties. “What the fuck, man. I gotta – you can’t just stop me now.” He dangles the beads in front of Ryan. “It’s bad luck to keep ‘em for yourself. Probably.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh as he makes a swipe for the beads. “Just give ‘em to me, then. Problem solved.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Shane tsks, holding the beads just out of reach. Somewhere in his brain, tiny sober Shane is screaming at him. “I can’t just _give_ these away, Ryan. You gotta – gotta earn ‘em, buddy.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Ryan laughs, fumbling for the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his chest before Shane can blink twice. Shane gets a glimpse of dusky nipples and what seems like miles of olive skin before Ryan tugs his shirt back down and makes a grab for the beads with a tiny, “Hah! Hand ‘em over, fucker!”

And it’s stupid, so incredibly stupid, for Shane to be slack-jawed right now. He’s seen Ryan shirtless more times than he can count, but something about such a teasing glimpse completely short-circuits his brain, which, hey, wasn’t doing so hot after all the alcohol he’d consumed anyway.

Ryan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing, grabbing for his wrist as he lumbers a little unsteadily to his feet. “C’mon, big guy,” he says, pulling Shane into the room and closing the balcony doors behind them. “Think it’s time we called it a night.”

Shane allows himself to be led, docile as a fucking lamb as Ryan nudges him toward his open suitcase, offering first dibs on the bathroom that Shane takes without a second thought, mostly because he only has room for one in his head and right now that spot is reserved for Ryan.

Hot water helps to sober him up a little bit, at least, though that just leads to another host of problems. It’s just – it’s been a while since he’s seen Ryan so loose-limbed and relaxed, since he’s heard his laughter and not detected an edge of nervousness to it. It’s been a few weeks since he practically barged into Ryan’s apartment and asked for an explanation for that night in Waverly, and since then they’ve been kind of walking on eggshells around each other, toeing a line that had never before existed between them. This was the first night in a long time that things felt normal, felt _good_.

And it’s nice. It’s like a balance has been struck between them once more, the universe realigning into something that makes sense – late nights and booze and the reminder that Shane is fucked ten ways from Sunday over Ryan Bergara and his stupid pretty smile and raucous laugh and truly ridiculous muscles.

He sighs loudly, the sound swallowed up by the pounding of the water against tile, and scrubs his hands through his hair. The last few weeks have been so damn strange that for once he’s not annoyed by the pathetic train of his thoughts, and in fact he’s more than happy to indulge in them: in how pretty Ryan looked in the glow of the streetlamps, in how warm he felt stumbling along at Shane’s side, in how happy Shane had been to see him smiling, bright and unrestrained for the first time since Waverly.

God, Waverly. Shane wishes they’d never gone to that place. Better yet, he wishes he’d never followed Ryan into the darkness of those corridors.

Not because of what he’d found, what he’d _seen_ , not really, but because maybe then he could have spared them both so many tense, uncertain weeks.

Shane doesn’t believe in ghosts, never has, never will. That hasn’t changed. And he had been more than prepared to accept that Ryan was just playing a prank on him, getting him back for riling Ryan up so often, but one look at Ryan’s face that night and he’d known that wasn’t the case. Ryan had looked _terrified_ , not because of some ghostie or noise he couldn’t explain, but because of _Shane_.

“ _I wasn’t going to tell you_ ,” he’d said that night in his apartment, not looking at Shane, so unlike the brash, loud-mouthed Ryan that Shane knew. “ _I didn’t want you to think I was making this up, or that I was – that I was losing it, going crazy_.” The way his voice had wavered, thick with what Shane feared were tears, had torn Shane’s heart to pieces. He’d seen Ryan scared out of his mind before, wide-eyed and screaming, but he’d never seen him like _that_ , curled in on himself like he was bracing for a fight or something worse.

And then… fuck, Shane still isn’t over it, how Ryan had confessed in that small, tight voice that he’d gone to a doctor to get himself checked out, that he’d spent weeks waiting anxiously for results and didn’t know whether to be relieved or not when everything had come back negative. All of that – the testing, the waiting – must have shown on his face somehow, and yet Shane hadn’t noticed a thing, hadn’t picked up on any abnormalities in Ryan’s behavior that would give away what he’d been going through.

He knows it’s ridiculous to feel guilty about that; Ryan had told him he’d deliberately kept him in the dark for a multitude of reasons, after all, but still guilt churns in Shane’s stomach at the thought of Ryan sitting in some waiting room, scared and alone and probably driving himself up the wall with all of the _what-ifs_ stretching out in front of him.

“ _This is real, Shane_ ,” he’d said, meeting Shane’s eyes for the first time that night and steeling his shoulders. “ _For me, this is real, and I have to live with it, but you… If you can’t deal with this, if you don’t want to do the show with me anymore, or, or have anything to do with me –_ ”

Shane’s grateful he had managed to give himself a mental kick in the ass and assure Ryan that he wasn’t going anywhere, because hearing those words had made his stomach drop somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes. Leaving Unsolved, leaving Ryan – neither had ever even occurred to him, not then and not now, in a hotel bathroom in New Orleans with the taste of whiskey on his tongue and Ryan’s loose, happy grin on his mind.

He couldn’t make himself believe in ghosts just because Ryan said they were there, that he could _see_ them. He would feel like a liar for trying, and he couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that. But he could believe in _Ryan_ , for whatever that was worth, and hope that it was enough.

So he resolves to do just that. He keeps tabs on Ryan throughout their investigation of the Dauphine Hotel the next day, watching him more closely than he might have otherwise. He tries not to be overt about it; Ryan’s never been a fan of being babied or coddled, and he’d bristle something fierce if he knew that Shane was keeping an eye on him.

The hotel itself seems pretty benign. Shane’s thrilled to have a bed big enough to stretch out on, and as disappointed as he is that the jacuzzi tub doesn’t work, seeing Ryan crack up in the steam-filled bathroom more than makes up for it.

Shane sleeps like a baby for the most part, barring a few instances of Ryan shaking him awake to listen to the creak of floorboards above them. It’s obvious enough by Ryan’s wide eyes that he thinks it’s a ghost to blame, and the front desk clerk certainly doesn’t help by telling him one of the rooms above them is unoccupied, but Shane’s not so easily fooled. He’s training himself to be more open about this stuff, to differentiate between Ryan jumping at shadows and Ryan jumping at… well, things that might not be shadows, but there are a hundred explanations for what those noises were last night and a pacing ghost is at the bottom of Shane’s list.

He tells Ryan as much, and it warms his heart to see Ryan’s pissy expression in response. Honestly, it’s one of Shane’s favorite reactions – the way Ryan’s entire face scrunches up in pure annoyance, like he can’t believe Shane’s audacity. It’s even better now that he knows how much Ryan actually appreciates his skepticism and his occasional ribbing, how it keeps him sane when they’re on location.

They have a few hours to freshen up before they’re back at it, set to explore a couple voodoo shops in town and, later, to meet up with an “authentic” voodoo priestess. Shane marvels at the wares in _Voodoo Authentica_ , thrilled by the history of it all and intrigued by the different altars laden with offerings scattered throughout the store. One altar in particular catches his eye, the one their guide claims is meant to influence love and attraction, and before they leave he’s compelled to leave an offering of his own, emptying his pockets of all their spare change and refusing to think too deeply about what he’s hoping to accomplish with such an impulsive act. 

Their next stop is the house of Bloody Mary, resident Voodoo queen and one of the most colorful characters Shane’s ever meant. Ryan seems downright dazzled by her – well, dazzled as well as wary, particularly as she leads them through the former voodoo temple they’ve come to investigate. Shane can’t lie and say he’s not tempted to roll his eyes at some of her theatrics, but it’s cute how Ryan seems to hang off of her every word. He’s so desperately curious about every place they go, wanting to soak up the history like a sponge, and Shane’s always appreciated that, appreciated Ryan’s dedication to preserving the truth and the merit of a place rather than ignoring it in favor of glamorizing the rumors surrounding it.

And there are plenty of rumors surrounding this place, not to mention the very bloody, very _recent_ crime that occurred in the second floor apartment. It’s a far cry from the Dauphine, and as they continue to explore, Shane starts to notice things. Differences. Ryan still jumps at creaks and groans and shadows, things with perfectly reasonable explanations behind them that Ryan tends to exacerbate when he’s afraid, but there are other moments, moments where he grows quiet and still, like he’s listening for something, or seeing something that Shane can’t. And maybe he is.

Shane’s actually a little envious, if he’s being honest with himself. He wonders what it must feel like, to experience these places the way Ryan does, completely open and ready to accept that there could be anything out there, waiting, in the dark. He’s too much in his own head to ever be able to do that, though he’s been trying more and more, ever since Waverly.

He feels a sense of déjà vu as he walks in on Ryan sitting with his eyes closed, a focused look on his face and Bloody Mary speaking softly to him. Noticing Shane’s presence, she pushes a finger to her lips and murmurs, “He’s channeling,” and though it’s on the tip of Shane’s tongue to make a joking remark, he seals his lips and leans against the doorway, choosing only to watch.

_You intellectualize too much_ , Mary had told him earlier, and hell, maybe she’s right. He can suppress that urge for once, can’t he? For Ryan?

So he watches, and he waits, and when Ryan’s eyes open and land on him, his lips curling into a serene smile the likes of which Shane has never seen before on location, he knows he’s done the right thing.

“So what happened in there?” he asks later that night, after they’ve come back from a late dinner with the crew and settled back into their room. Ryan’s sitting on his bed, feet bare and camera cradled in his hands, no doubt already itching to pour through their footage, and Shane takes a seat beside him, adding, “With Bloody Mary?”

Ryan lowers his camera, looking at Shane like he’s not quite sure what to make of him. _Join the club, buddy_ , Shane thinks, and fights a grin.

“You really want to know?” It’s not surprise in Ryan’s voice so much as caution, which Shane can’t fault him for. He’s never asked Ryan about what he sees, not this explicitly.

“Yeah,” he says, keeping the usual teasing lilt out of his voice. This isn’t the time to poke fun, and he knows that. “I want to know.”

Ryan studies him for a long moment, fingers tapping a little restlessly on his camera. Shane waits patiently, hoping that Ryan will find whatever it is he’s looking for in his face, and, eventually, it seems he does. He nods once, decisively, and sets his camera on the nightstand between their beds.

“There was a kid,” he starts slowly, running a hand through his hair. A nervous tic, Shane knows, and feels a rush of fondness he’s glad Ryan can’t see with his eyes trained on the floor.

“He talked to me,” Ryan confesses, his voice small but happy, like he’s afraid of Shane’s reaction but wants to tell him anyway, because this is important to him, something he wants to share, despite how it may turn out. “That’s never happened before. I always try, but no one… no one’s ever answered me.” His shoulders roll in a shrug, and he opens his mouth again, maybe to change the subject, maybe to wave away what he’d just confessed, but Shane doesn’t let him.

“Will you tell me about him?” he asks, and feels a trill of pride rush through him at Ryan’s surprise.

“Will you listen?” Ryan asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, and Shane grins. This is the sort of territory he’s familiar with. “Without making a single sarcastic comment?”

Shane crosses his heart with a solemn nod. “Not a one,” he promises, and Ryan deflates, something soft and hopeful in his eyes.

“He liked dogs,” he says, smiling a little. “He talked about a collie he used to have, a girl named Sadie. He said he misses her.” His smile turns a little sad, and Shane feels it, too, somehow, imagining a little kid with a gap-toothed smile and a puppy at his heels. “There are… others, with him, so he’s not alone.”

“Some of them are, though?” Shane prompts. Half of him feels ridiculous for the words coming out of his mouth, but he promptly tells that half to fuck off.

Ryan nods, leaning back on his hands. “Sometimes. I think – I think they gravitate towards each other, if they’re aware? Stick together. Salem… Salem was like that. The girls – “ He trails off, looking embarrassed, and despite the strange conversation they’re having Shane can’t help but feel a swell of affection bloom in his chest.

“This is weird for you too, huh?” he asks, wary of saying the wrong thing but taking a chance anyway, and is rewarded as Ryan bursts into laughter, falling onto his back on the bed.

“Fuck, _yes_!” he wheezes, rubbing at his face with his palms. “I’d never planned on saying any of this shit to anyone, especially not _you_ \- “

“Ouch,” Shane interjects, copying Ryan’s position with a despondent sigh. “That cuts me real deep, Ryan. Real deep.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Ryan grumps, bumping their shoulders together. They’re a line of warmth against each other, tucked into each other’s sides, but neither of them seem concerned with the lack of space between them. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Shane agrees, and nudges Ryan back. “I want you to talk about it, if you want to, with me. I might not be a certified Voodoo priestess but I can still, y’know, listen.”

“And give me shit for it,” Ryan shoots back, lips tilted into a grin.

“Well, it’s what I’m good at,” Shane answers, and then, a tad more somberly, “Does it bother you, that I still don’t – “ He doesn’t know how to say it without coming across as dismissive, or an asshole, and he doesn’t want to be either.

Ryan turns on his side, facing him, his smile turning softer. “You don’t have to believe in ghosts, Shane. It’s enough that you – that you’re trying. That you asked me about tonight. It means a lot.”

“Yeah?” Shane asks.

Ryan nods. “Yeah.”

And that’s that. A blanket of comfortable silence settles around them, and even though they should really both grab showers and pack up their stuff in preparation for their early morning flight, Shane doesn’t want to move. He’s content to bask in their shared warmth for as long as Ryan allows, to enjoy it, and Ryan seems to share the same mindset.

A few moments pass before he hears Ryan’s voice. “Can I ask you something?”

Shane blinks open his eyes, not even realizing he’d closed them, and nods his head in a _go on_ gesture.

“If you don’t believe in – in spirits and energy and voodoo, why’d you leave an offering in the store?”

“You saw that, huh?” Shane asks, a nervous lump forming in his throat. He knows he could dissemble, could crack a joke and move them onto safer subjects, but… fuck it. It’s about time he spilled some of his own secrets, and right now, surrounded by warmth and a soft haze of content, he isn’t afraid.

“Maybe I needed a little luck in love,” he says, voice lowering to preserve the quiet atmosphere around them.

“You having trouble in that department, big guy?” Ryan asks, smiling a little. “That’s hard to believe.”

Shane shoots him a grin that wobbles at the edges. It’s now or never, he guesses. “I don’t know about that. This guy… this guy’s a tough nut to crack, you know? Believes in ghosts and can’t even see how dumb I am over him.”

Silence. A lot of silence. Shane sneaks a peek at Ryan’s face, his heart in his throat, and freezes.

Ryan’s all wide-eyes and parted lips, like he’s just – well, like he’s just seen a ghost, but Shane’s never seen him blush that hard in the presence of any spirit.

“Why – ?” Ryan starts, only to swallow and try again. “Why didn’t you ever – ?”

_Say anything_ goes unsaid, and Shane shrugs a little self-consciously. “I was afraid,” he says simply, and it’s not as difficult to admit as he thought it would be. “And I don’t – Ryan, I’m not expecting you to return – “

“Shut up, Shane.”

Shane shuts up. Not because Ryan told him to, but because there’s a hand, warm and a little sweaty, slipping into his own.

“Finally admits he’s afraid and won’t even let me enjoy it,” Ryan mumbles as if talking to himself, but his eyes are steady on Shane’s and the curl of his smile is desperately soft.

“What an asshole, right?” Shane murmurs, relishing in the low rumble of Ryan’s laughter.

“Such an asshole,” he agrees, using his grip on Shane’s hand to pull him closer, eating up the scant distance between them until they’re tucked as close as they can be, no more room for secrets or doubts or anything but the warmth of each other and the soft press of Ryan’s lips against his, and that’s enough.

It’s more than enough.


End file.
